


the end of a long night

by nymja



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Spoilers for 8x3, Tumblr fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 19:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18666541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: Finding each other, after the battle of Winterfell.





	the end of a long night

She can’t focus on anything, breath coming in too short as the adrenaline crashes. She looks at Bran, trying to make it all come together. She can’t. She’s alive and she _can’t_.

“You’re scared,” Bran says, patient as she processes what she's just done. “It’s alright to be scared.”

The dagger falls to the ground because her hands are shaking too hard. Arya tries to say something, but nothing seems to work.

His dark eyes glance up. “The dawn will be here soon. Most of our family will see it because of you. Because all parts fell to place.”

One of the words lets her focus, makes her racing thoughts anchor. “...most?”

Bran says nothing, but he looks somewhere over her shoulder. Slowly, she turns.

There is a body pinned to the ground. Her first thought is that it’s not Jon, thank everything that it’s not Jon. But then her gaze lingers, and the body’s features slide into place: sandy hair, what’s left of a kraken. Blue, flat eyes that aren’t watching anything anymore.

“Theon.”

“Yes.” Bran moves his chair until he is beside her. “He was here, so you could be.”

“What do you mean?”

“All parts fell to place,” he says again.

She looks at the body, then makes her heavy-numb legs move toward it. Then kneels in front of him. Arya knows death, but all she can think about in this moment is that she never knew Theon. Maybe no one did.

“He was better than he believed.” Bran offers. Then: “They’ll be here soon for us. You can rest now.”

And so Arya does, falling face-forward into the snow.

\--

“How the fuck you still alive?”

Podrick looks up, weary as he meets the gaze of the wildling man. “Because I tried, I think.”

“Good.” Tormund pats his shoulder hard. Podrick’s legs buckle a little under it. “Where’s she?”

He’s so tired he can only gesture with a nod. A few steps away, Ser Brienne and Jaime Lannister are together, sitting on the ground and slumped against a crumbling wall.

Tormund grins, then meets Podrick’s eyes. “Need to know who won.”

“Won?”

But he’s gone already, and Podrick sighs as he watches the wildling shove his way into sitting between the two knights.

Tormund slaps Jaime Lannister on the side of his arm. “How many wights did you get?”

Jaime looks at him, then shakes his head. “Less than Brienne.”

Jaime and Ser Brienne’s eyes meet over Tormund’s head. It’s a soft look, soft enough that Podrick almost feels like he should avert his gaze elsewhere.

Then it’s ruined when Tormund turns to her, eyebrows raised suggestively. Her lips press tightly together.

Then she laughs. It’s a loud, booming noise that fills the space.

Podrick’s never heard it from her before. He likes the sound.  
Jaime must too, because his laugh soon joins hers.

\--

He lets go of a short sigh, his hand dragging down the lower half of his face. “How long?”

Varys doesn’t answer right away, his hands folded in the sleeves of his robe. “Long enough.”

Outside the gates of Winterfell, two dragons curl around each other. Their mother in the middle of them, Ser Jorah’s head in her lap. She’s been like this since the death of the Night King. Tyrion has watched Daenerys through defeat, through fear and rage. But never like this.

Never with true, lasting grief.

“He was a loyal man,” Varys says quietly. They’ve all been so very quiet since the crypts. “A difficult thing to be in these times.”

Tyrion, who is well aware that he is not a loyal man, gives a tired nod.

Drogon lets loose a long, sorrowful keen.

Varys doesn’t look away from their queen. “It won’t be the same after this.”

"No, I suppose it won't."

Tyrion thinks of the crypts. Of Sansa, and what ran through his mind when he thought his moments were over. He had been relieved that it was her, at the end. That they were together. And that’s something he will have to confront once they’ve beaten Cersei.

For now, the Hand of the Queen merely shakes his head, and walks across the carnage. Drogon raises his head, nostrils flaring. Then he blinks, and ducks his face again into the crook of his wing.

That truly never gets easier.

“My queen,” he says quietly, stepping toward Daenerys and the late Ser Jorah.

She doesn’t look up, but he sees her back rise with a harsh breath.

“Daenerys.” Tyrion tries again with a smile. It is not a happy smile. “It’s time.”

Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name, looks up. He’s reminded of how very young she is, how very alone in the foreign country that is her homeland. Her red-rimmed eyes seek his, completely and utterly lost.

Not knowing what else to do, he offers his hand.

She takes it, grip strong as she makes herself stand.

\--

“They told me you were down here.”

She doesn’t turn away from the slab in front of her. It’s a covering for an empty space in the crypt. But then again, most of the spaces are empty now. Her father’s and Rickon’s graves had been undisturbed, but she wonders what would be underneath it if she lifted the stone. Maybe the claws of finger nails. Maybe bones frozen, half in motion.

Jon steps beside Sansa, a hand resting on her shoulder as they both take in the body before them. They kept him in his armor, she thinks he’d like that.

“He chose,” Jon offers. “Not many get to.”

Sansa rests her hand on Theon’s cold forehead. Pushes his hair back from his eyes.

“Where should he go?” she asks--voice quiet, breath hitching. “I don’t know where he should go.”

Jon’s hand drops from her shoulder.

“He’s a Stark,” is all he offers. “Much as we are.”

There’s only one place for Starks.

\--

It’s madness, in the aftermath of the battle. Gendry’s never seen anything like it. He stumbles through the courtyard, trying to find his footing as children look for their parents, as families reunite. He stands motionless, like a small stone in the stream of what exists after a last stand. It might be shock, he wages, that keeps him rooted as people move frantically around him.

Next to him, a woman jumps down from a platform where some of the archers were stationed. She runs, faster than he’s ever seen someone move, until she collides into the arms of a man he reckons is her husband. They embrace and Gendry can hear both their crying.

The man doesn’t look anything like him, and the archer doesn’t look anything like her, but they make him think. Make him fully realize where he is, what’s happened.

Who’s missing.

Without a second thought, he drops his mace to the ground and starts running. He doesn’t even know where. Gendry just knows he needs to move, to head in any direction where he wasn’t because it might be the direction she’s in.

His heart’s racing, and he’s always been a stupid bull because he grabs anyone he can.

“Arya Stark, you seen her?” He asks, more times than he can count. “Have you seen her?!”

No one has. He tries for over an hour before he stops, bending his knees into a haunch and burying his face in his arms. His fingers press down hard against the back of his head, and the next exhale is a short, angry yell.

They haven’t even gotten a start. He hasn’t even gotten to try.

“Looking for someone?” A raspy voice asks above him.

Gendry’s throat works as he pushes back into a stand.

Arya is pale, her face bloody, but the look she sends him is soft.

Gendry moves before he can think, arms around her as he crushes her to him. She goes limp against him and he kisses the top of her head before burying his face in the crook of her neck. He closes his eyes tight, like if he were to open them this wouldn’t be here. They wouldn’t be here. They shouldn't've been here.

Her hands move to his back, where he feels her fingers clenching into the fabric of his shirt.

“I killed the Night King,” she whispers into his chest.

He cups her face in his hands, craning his neck so he can press his forehead to hers. “‘Course you did.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” she confesses.

“It doesn’t fucking matter.”

He kisses her like they both survived the end of the world.

\--

“You useless fuck,” Sandor tells the corpse of Beric Dondarrion, his hand digging into the collar of his armored shirt in order to drag the body after him. Every step almost brings him to his knees, but he keeps going anyway. “Can’t even die in the right place.”

After a few more steps, he stops, eyeing the massive pyre they’re starting to build.

“Get to see your stupid God now.” Sandor looks up, the sky a healthy pink now that the sun’s rising. “Only took you ten times. Guess you can’t do that right, either.”

He hasn’t seen her, but he’s heard enough to know the little bitch survived. Killed the fucking Night King, apparently. Sandor thinks of fire, the man in front of him dying, and the moment he realized Arya Stark could still be a scared little girl.

“Worse ways to go,” he mumbles, before he starts up again. “Guess it’s one more fire for you, you stupid fuck.”

Sandor looks down at Beric’s face. That rat bastard is smirking.

\--

He is waiting for her as soon as she climbs out from the crypts, his armor stained and chin slightly quivering.

“Missandei of Naath,” Grey Worm greets, before he falls to his knees.

She smiles, feeling tears well in her eyes when his name escapes as a sob. “Torgo Nudha.”

She steps toward him. He presses his face against her stomach and she wraps her arms around him. Her fingers run over the short, sharp hair covering his scalp.

“Missandei of Naath,” he says again. “We are almost home.”


End file.
